Falling
by Feej
Summary: Mycroft was the one to tell him, in a voice choked and broken beyond recognition.  He was the one to tell him that, no, his brother wouldn't come back from Switzerland and that he was sorry, very sorry.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: don't own.

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><p><strong>Falling<strong>

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><p>Mycroft was the one to tell him, in a voice choked and broken beyond recognition.<br>He was the one to tell him that, no, his brother wouldn't come back from Switzerland and that, yes, John would and could he pick up John tomorrow and he was sorry. Very sorry.

It didn't matter.

Because it couldn't possibly be true, now could it?

Sherlock everyone-else-is-an-idiot impossible-git I-don't-care bloody _Holmes_ could not _not_ come home.

He vaguely heard the older Holmes brother trying to explain something to him. Lestrade eyed his phone wearily and shut the device off , lowering it slowly.

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><p>When he heard the sirens that night, he knew he wouldn't have to worry anymore.<p>

When his phone chimed, he knew it wouldn't be Sherlock, demanding a case.

When he tripped over a stack of casefiles (_don't touch those, they're in alphabetical order!), _he knew he wouldn't have to keep them

But all the same, he worried at the sound of the sirens, he hoped at the beep of his phone and he kept the files. In alphabetical order. He wondered what kind of alphabet. Cyrillic, maybe. He would have to ask hi– _he needed a drink. _

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><p>He stood at the window, looking at the sunset without seeing it, idly wondering why the sun even bothered, why the traffic kept on buzzing below, why the world hadn't stopped at all.<p>

He finished his drink, but couldn't find a reason to get another one. Instead, he kept staring off into space and wondering.

_Of course, _he decided, _because it isn't true._

It couldn't be. There was a case that he needed him to solve, nicotine patches the man was supposed to steal, a lock to pick, there were _things_ in his fridge he didn't dare touch, and there was John. Oh God, John.

He closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cold window. He vaguely registered that it wasn't raining. It should bloody well be raining. Thunder and lightning. Anything but the calm summer breeze of evening, mixing with the sounds of laughter and life.

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><p>He sat on the couch, tired, weary. His numb fingers trailed over the table, lingering on the oddly shaped stain. <em>Unexpected but very crucial development in the experiment on Mr. Igson's blood; can you hand me the scalp?<em>

His stomach tied itself into a knot, there was something stuck in his throath, but he shook his head and poured himself another drink.

Tomorrow, tomorrow he would face the world.

Not just yet.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading!<br>**_I'm working on a second chapter but it's being a bit uncooperative, so it might take a few days... Comments and suggestions very much appreciated :) _


	2. Chapter 2

**Rising**

He shouldn't be surprised, really. Having known Sherlock for that amount of time, he shouldn't have been surprised.

So, in a way, he wasn't, as he opened his front door, to find his consulting detective standing there, dripping in the rain, after three years of total nothingness.

"You've moved," Sherlock stated, looking a little lost, soaked curls plastered to his forehead, contrasting sharply with his pale skin.

"I did." Lestrade blinked. Sherlock was still there.

The detective made a helpless gesture. "John won't let me in."

"And you can't pick the lock or what?" Lestrade said, raising one eyebrow.

"Yes... no, he" Sherlock shook his head, his voice urgent, "you don't understand, he won't _have_ me in the flat. He… _his _flat, he – " His eyes widened as if he had just realized what that meant. Lestrade figured that was probably the case.

Sherlock shot the DI a bewildered look, "I didn't… I couldn't, he… you moved–"

Lestrade acted quickly, pulling Sherlock inside. "Christ, Sherlock, you're freezing!"

The detective looked down at himself and seemed to consider that statement, before starting to shiver. "I didn't know ho…" his voice trailed off, and his gaze shifted to Lestrade before zoning out. He raised a hand, and let it fall to his side again.

Lestrade grabbed the man's wrists, unable to see more of the hopelessness that trickled into the room with each gesture. "Sherlock, focus!" The callouses that had built up on the fingers of his left hand after years and years of wailing away on the violin, had gone, replaced with bruised knuckles and angry white lines of scars that Lestrade knew hadn't been there before.

"God, what happened to you?" Lestrade muttered.

Sherlock seemed to look right through him, face wrenched in agony as three years of emotions, memories and _hurt_ shot through him. He screwed his eyes shut.

"Right, shower." Lestrade ushered the still shaking man to the bathroom, and let the shower run.

Sherlock didn't seem to register much, his long numb fingers fumbling at the soaked and cold shirt in a faint attempt at undressing.

Lestrade shook his head, and without second thought, placed Sherlock firmly in the shower cabin, clothes and all. The man leaned back against the tiles and let the water pour over him, closing his eyes.

Lestrade couldn't take his eyes off the red mark, too close to the artery. Couldn't be more than a month ago.

"Three years, Sherlock." It was barely more than a whisper.

Sherlock didn't respond, lowering himself to the cold, wet floor. Lestrade sat on one knee, facing the detective. "Three _years_," he repeated, urgently this time, no longer a whisper.

Sherlock's head snapped up. Lestrade knew he would never forget the look the man sent him, the pain and _hurt_ had gone, but the DI didn't like what he saw. The sheer emptiness, devoid of _anything_, that rested in the grey eyes, scared him, more than anything else.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to speak, but the gut-wrenching sound that came out reminded Lestrade of a wounded animal.

Lestrade sat down beside him, ignoring the water and the cold. "You promised not to." Sherlock nodded, eyes dull, zoning out again, "'msorry," he shook his head and closed his eyes again, "sorry." Lestrade shook his head disbelievingly. Was that resignation?

"Damn it Sherlock…" he gathered him in his arms and held on tight. Sherlock only briefly tried to back away, eyes widening in surpise, before all the tension seemed to spill out of the man as he let Lestrade hold him, probably adding some bruised ribs to his impressive collection, built up in three years of nothing.

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><p>Lestrade unfolded himself from the sofa, and started to search for his phone. He had to talk to John. The mobile buzzed before he had the chance to press 'call'. He sighed with relief as he read the message.<p>

**Lestrade, please tell that Impossible Git of mine that he can come home.  
>Tell him to bring milk.<br>JW**

Lestrade read the message again, smiled and then turned to glance over at the sleeping form of Sherlock _three bloody years _Holmes. The black hair was still damp, the long limbs no longer shivering, breaths even and deep, no longer twitching in his sleep at every sound.

He put the phone away and moved to the sofa.

Tomorrow, tomorrow he would give him back to John. He brushed some of the black curls back from Sherlock's face.

Not just yet.

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><p><em><strong>Note<strong>: As always, thank you for reading! And, wow, that was a difficult chapter, took me a while to adapt it. Tell me if you see something that could/should be improved/altered. _

_Thanks Sidney for betaing and suggesting the giving-back idea (looong ago, i know :P)_


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